


The Fox Went out on a Chilly Night

by DachOsmin



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Crying, Ghost Sex, Humiliation, M/M, Nursery Rhyme References, Psychological Horror, Revenge Sex, Worldbuilding, hunted with rape as penalty for getting caught
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 06:46:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11458212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/pseuds/DachOsmin
Summary: On Ulis' night, when the veil between the world hangs thinnest, Csevet Aisava leaves the Alcethmeret to seek out the grave of Eshevis Tethimar.





	The Fox Went out on a Chilly Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vulnerasti_Cor_Meum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulnerasti_Cor_Meum/gifts).



Csevet can’t say why he does it.

It’s ill luck. People will talk. He has letters to write and seals to stamp and orders to give and carry out in equal measure. He has no good reason to go, and every reason not to.

But taken together, all his justifications are still less than the compulsion that sets him walking away from the Alcethmeret on Ulis’ Night, to seek out the grave of Eshevis Tethimar.

Perhaps it’s the nightmares he’s been having, the ones he wakes from screaming and bathed in sweat. Perhaps it’s the way he can almost imagine blue eyes on his back, piercing him like a sword. Or else it’s memories of Eshoravee and Winternight intruding at the worst of times, unasked for and wholly unwanted.

He watched Tethimar die. He saw Cala's hand twist with great and terrible power, had not flinched or looked away as the body collapsed on the dais. And he came back long after the emperor and the rest of the court had left, watching as priests of Ulis purified the space with burning wreaths of juniper and myyrh. And yet, the nightmares.

He has to go. Anything to purge this poison from his mind.

Ulis’ Night is traditional for these sorts of ventures: the time when the veil hangs thinnest between the dead and the living. What better time to swear himself free of the man’s shade? He will go, he will see Tethimar’s grave, and he will know that Tethimar no longer has any power over him. And then he will finally be able to sleep again.

***

On the prescribed night, when the moon hangs heavy in the sky, Csevet ties his cloak tight and slips from his quarters. He exits the Alcethmeret with a nod to the guards at the main gate; they wave him through with lazy salutes and decline to ask him where he’s going. Why would they? He’s young and fair and his shift is over; there’s nothing odd about taking a jaunt to the metheglin parlors and opera houses of the upper city, or even the taverns and dance halls and other, seedier, places one might find further afield.

He hurries by the metheglin parlors and pays no mind to the taverns. His way is lit at first by alchemical bulbs casting halos of blue and green on the street-mosaics, and then, as the Alcethmeret falls away in the distance, by rough torches on cobblestone. He passes other people: ladies tittering over the playbill of an opera, lads hooting as they pass a bottle of metheglin back and forth between them, the roar of an angry drunk- but they all seem very far away, as if he is hearing their voices echoed over the surface of a far lake. He feels very much alone.

He clears the outer gates of the city just after the eleventh bell echoes from the Untheileneise’meire. The guards are much more suspicious this time: the gates close at night for a reason and perhaps they can see some of his nervous energy in the way he shifts from foot to foot. But he remembers the courier pass-phrases and though he wears no uniform the glint of cold coin in moonlight is very forgiving. They wave him through.

Csevet shivers as the city gates shut behind him. There are no colored lights or torches here; there is only the impassive face of Ulis, full and high in the sky. He is alone and it is very cold.

He sets to walking. The path is easy enough to find and follow; the paving stones gleam in the moonlight. It wends away from the main road, up the side of a steep knoll. He plants each foot solidly in front of the last and focuses on the way his breath fogs in the air.

Just as his lungs begin to burn with the climb he sees it: a tall fence with spiked crenelations, and beyond it figures looming out of the darkness, starkly silhouetted by the unforgiving moonlight.

He has arrived. The Revethmire it’s named in truth, but in common parlance it’s known as the Garden of Fidelity. Let it never be said elves lack for irony.

Arsonists and murderers and horse-thieves are made to pay for their crimes with their lives, but in death their bodies are returned to their families or else buried in the pauper’s pits south of the city if their kin cannot or do not wish to be found. But treachery: treachery is a sin that casts a long shadow and offends gods along with men, and so the punishment for such a crime stretches beyond the bounds of the living. Traitors are made to serve the Elflands in death as they failed to do in life. Each and every one of them is chained to the earth in black granite effigy. A punishment beyond the grave and a lesson for the living.

Csevet stops at the gate: a baroque mess of iron spikes and flourishes, wrought with scenes of writhing demons. There’s a keyhole set into the latch of the gate. He reaches back and removes one of the iron tashin sticks he’d brought with him especially for this purpose. Biting his lip in concentration, he slides the sharp end into the keyhole and feels for give in the tumblers.

Truth be told it’s been a very long time since he’s done this but muscles remember and besides, the lock is very old, and mostly ceremonial. Who would want to break in to this place, of all places? There’s nothing here to steal, only bitter memories.

Csevet twists the tashin stick until he hears a faint click as the tumblers turn over. He pushes the gate with the flat of his palm and it swings open with a creak of protest.

The statues of the traitors stretch on before him like a silent army. It’s paranoid; it’s utter provincial nonsense- but he can feel their eyes on him as he steps forward. The hairs raise on the back of his neck.

A moment of indecision. He could still turn back. He has nothing to prove to anyone but himself. He could draw his cloak and shut the gate and walk away from this place with no one being any the wiser. Life will continue apace.

But so will the nightmares.

He steps through the gate.

It’s a long walk to Tethimar’s grave- the Elflands have endured for many centuries, long enough for all sorts of uppity nobles and petty malcontents to try their hands at treachery. The moon is a pale specter behind a veil of clouds, and its faint light sets the shadows swimming against the black stone. He passes Orava: the famous mageborn usurper. He passes Lisethu Peveninn, unassuming in death without the support of her rebel armies. There’s Cathis the Defiant and Adra Knife-in-the-Dark and every other villain that schoolchildren are taught to hate.

In fact, they take Cetheise schoolchildren here to learn history and fearful obedience. Csevet can remember running his pudgy fingers over the grave inscription of Thurvis the Treacherous as his grammarian explained how naughty children could expect to suffer a similar fate. He had expected that the statues might feel smaller this time, less imposing now that he’s grown. They do not.

He is ill at ease by the time he reaches the newest inmate of the Revethmire. The runes on the statue’s plinth are large and simply wrought, that even a child may read them and learn their lesson. Eshevis Tethimar, heir of Duke Tethimel. Commended unto Ulis for conspiring to do harm unto Emperor Edrehasivar, Seventh of his Name. May the reader learn from his mistakes.

He finally dares to look up at the statue itself.

The sculptor knew his art well. It is not a perfect likeness; the figure is stylized, with little care made to capture the subject’s features. And of course the sculpted penitent’s robe is garb Tethimar never would have chosen in life. Yet the sculptor captured that sneer, the hatred in those eyes, the twist of anger in those brows, and stamped it into granite to weather the centuries.

Csevet expects to feel triumph. Some vindication or satisfaction, at least.

All he feels is cold.

He’s suddenly furious at himself for coming. What had he expected? What peace had he planned to get from a hunk of rock? The rough-hewn lines of Tethimar’s face holds no answers for him. They mock him in death as well as life.

He spits violently against the base of the statue and watches with some kernel of satisfaction as his saliva drips down the “E” in Tethimar’s name. There. He is alive and Tethimar is dead. That will have to do. He rolls his shoulders, pulls his cloak tighter, and finally turns away from Tethimar and this hoard of ill-marked memories.

It’s not until he takes his first step towards the gate that he hears it: faint at first, barely more than a whisper on the wind.

_The fox went out on a chilly night…_

He stops, ears rigid in the air. His fingers, clumsy from the cold, stray to the haft of his dagger. He’s heard that thieves sometimes do business amongst the dead traitors in the dead of night: it’s an easy way to promise secrecy and the Guard is wary of coming here. But even the most godless cutthroat would be fearful of drawing the eyes of the dead when Ulis’ veil hangs so thin. Or so he had thought.

He strains his ears, but everything is as silent as before. He swallows, and begins to walk again. He does not release his grip on the dagger.

For a while the only sound is the crunch of frost-brittle grass beneath his boots. His ears relax infinitesimally, and he is about to ease his fingers away from the knife when-

_…And begged the stars to lend him their light…_

He stops, his eyes darting over the shadowed stones. There: a slip of white flits between a gap in the statues. Swallowing, he unsheathes the knife. “We are not amused, mer.”

_…For he had far to go that night…_

He brandishes the knife in front of him. “Show yourself!”

There is no response at first, and he dares to lower his dagger a fraction.

But then a dark chuckle echoes off the statues.

_…To reach the town of Cetho._

Csevet feels ice in his veins. He knows that voice, he knows this man, he knows-

He runs. He runs, and the murmurs follow.

He can’t tell where the voice is coming from; the whispers bounce of the rock and echo in the aisles. But he can tell that it’s getting closer.

_Now the hunter readies his carving knife-_

His lungs are burning and the sinews of his thighs are screaming; he’s not fit like he used to be; he spends too much time at a desk these days . But bodies remember, and his knows well the fear of flight, what to do when something with teeth and claws and murder in its heart is stalking behind you. His body remembers Eshoravee, and he runs.

His ragged breath and the slap of his soles against the granite is thunderous in his ears, but still, beneath it he can hear-

_-And the baying hounds ready their bites-_

He takes the turns at random, right, left, right- the terror drives him forward. The faces of traitors stare down at him from their plinths. He doesn’t recognize them anymore; where is he? Is he still in the Revethmire at all, or has he taken some ill-marked turn into Ulis’ Halls? He can see the flickers of white in the corner of his vision- closer, closer-

_-To give the fox a terrible fright-_

He thinks he sees the gates ahead, he surges forward-

_-Before the town of Cetho._

-and skids to a stop to see the granite face of Eshevis Tethimar staring down at him. His panting is deafening in his ears as he falls to his knees in a heaving gasp. He can only blink, struck dumb. All that running. He’s right back where he started.

Behind him, the grass crunches.

A laugh, and the scent of rotting flowers.

Csevet spins around and cannot help the cry that bleeds from his lips.

The wraith facing him is a mirror of the statue behind him. His face, so handsome in life, has gone gaunt and angular in death. His porcelain skin has blanched to bone, and the blue of his eyes is now an icy grey. But the hatred and the malice that burns in his gaze is the same, the same as it ever was.

“Hello, foxling.” Tethimar’s mouth disgorges the words like a clockwork automaton, each of his motions screaming that something about him is ever so slightly wrong

There’s a buzzing in Csevet’s ears. Someone is screaming. He slashes his knife forward-

And it Tethimar catches it.

He plucks it from Csevet’s hand and snaps it in two, then tosses it into the shadows of the graves like it’s no more than a broken child’s toy.

Csevet can only stare after it; this can’t be happening; this can’t be real.

And then Tethimar’s hands are on him, and he’s being lifted in the air, then slammed down against the earth.

He lands hard against the granite of Tethimar’s plinth; his head tips back and cracks against the stone of the statue. Licking at his lips, he tastes blood. Shapes are blurry; the earth tilts around him. He tries to suck in a lungful of air around the pain; he has to focus; he has to get away-

He sees too late the looming shadow as Tethimar leans down to pick him up. He rolls weakly to the side, scrabbles at the dirt and drags himself a foot or so into the shadows of the statues.

Tethimar lets out a low chuckle and humors him for a breath. But then he’s swooping down and tangling a hand in Csevet’s hair before yanking him up to his feet.

His other hand is icy against Csevet’s cheek, stroking up and down and smearing the blood over csevet’s lips like garish dancehall paint. “Oh, but we have wished for this, as we lay deeply dreaming in Ulis’ Halls. But we did not dare to hope that thou wouldst be so foolish as to give succor to our grave on this night, of all nights.” He lets out a dreamy sigh. “But the gods are just. They have given us a chance to finish what we started, foxling.”

Csevet shakes his head franticly. “You aren’t real. We watched you die.”

Tethimar’s leans closer, close enough that Csevet can feel the chill of his breath against his ear. He presses a chaste kiss to the tip, takes it in his mouth, and bites down hard enough. “Are we not, foxling?” he asks over Csevet’s pained cry.

Before Csevet can answer, Tethimar’s hand moves in a blur, ripping Csevet’s clothing away from his body like a husk. He is not gentle or careful with his hands: he leaves raised and reddened scratches where the tips of his nails dig into Csevet’s skin; they burn counterpoint to the freezing touch of the autumn air.

Csevet starts shivering and can’t stop. He breathes in panicked gasps as he struggles without direction or thought. He just want to get away from here, away from this-

Lacquered nails scratch ice over his collarbone, slice at his nipples, dance lower to ghost over his ribs and the hollow of his hips.

Tethimar lets his hand hover there, meeting his eyes with a grin, and Csevet knows with dull certainty that Tethimar wants him to beg. If he were stronger; if he were braver- but he’s not. “No, please,“ he cries-

Tethimar flips him around, slamming him against the stone of his effigy. He wraps one arm around Csevet’s neck and uses the other to force apart Csevet’s buttocks. All Csevet can do is whimper and choke against the vise of forearm pressing against his throat, swallowing haphazard gasps of air where he can get them.

Tethimar chuckles into his hair. “Likest this, foxling?” He turns to bite at the lobe of Csevet’s ear and breathes an icy breath against the abused flesh. “We shall have you screaming by the end.” It is a threat and a promise, and Csevet knows in the frozen pit of his stomach that it’s true.

And then Tethimar is forcing himself into Csevet with a low grunt. He moves slowly but it’s a taunt rather than a mercy: Csevet feels each inch tear its way in as time stretches into an eternity.

He bites his tongue until it bleeds- don’t let him see how it hurts; don’t give him the satisfaction- but he can’t help but whimper at the horrid, wretched, fullness of it. Tethimar pulls out and then rams his cock in to the hilt, his balls slapping at Csevet’s thighs, and Csevet cries out. Goddesses, the pain. He feels as if he’s being torn apart from the inside out; the burn of flesh tearing is unbearable. He’s sobbing now: fat tears dripping down over his cheeks and chin to stain the tatters of his clothes.

Tethimar ruts in again, and then again, picking up speed until Csevet is being battered against the stone with every thrust. He can only hang limp, pinned against the gravestone by the unrelenting stabbing of Tethimar’s cock. By now he can hardly see through the blur of tears and the lower half of his face is a mess of blood and snot.

“Thou wert made for this, foxling,” Tethimar grunts. “Should we invite the others to partake as well? Orava would enjoy thee, we wager.”

There’s no breath left in his lungs to do anything but scream. His cries are wordless, meaningless: the cries of an animal in pain. He screams his throat raw, until there’s no sound left in him, just silent, open mouthed cries forced out on each thrust of Tethimar’s cock.

His eyes fall shut. Tethimar’s grunts and the sickening slap of skin on skin recede until all he can hear is the echo of his own ragged breathing.

This is how death takes him: Tethimar will tear him apart and drag him down to Ulis’ Halls to torture him until the breaking of the world.

His heartbeat is erratic in his ears; he can already feel the light fading at the edge of his vision.

_Maia, forgive me._

Something cold touches his cheek.

He thinks it’s Tethimar’s fingers at first, or the sting of yet another tear.

A second prick of cold lands on his lip. It’s soothing against his abused skin.

He opens his eyes.

There’s a break in the clouds, and through it, the moonlight illuminates snowflakes.

An early autumn snowfall: the flakes drift around him like eiderdown, sticking to his eyelashes and the tracks of his tears.

_Salezheio._

Something glints at the edge of his blurred vision. He squints through his tears, and- there.

One of his tashin sticks droops from the remains of his braid, glinting in the moonlight.

He reaches for it like it might be a dream, as if he and Tethimar are the only things solid and all the things of the waking world are wraiths. Tethimar pays him no mind, so drunk on pleasure and revenge that Csevet may as well be a doll in his arms.

His fingers are stick and clumsy, but he manages to wrap his fingers around the tashin stick.

The iron of the shaft is cold in his hand.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Above him, Tethimar lets out a crowing laugh. “What’s this? Hast finally accepted thy fate? Thinkest not that we will spare thee-“

With the last of his strength, Csevet stabs the tashin stick up into the join of Tethimar’s neck.

An unholy shrieking erupts, and a wind rips through the air fast enough to knock Csevet to the ground. He lays there as the breath slowly comes back to his lungs, and the pain in his body subsides to a dull ache.

He picks himself up. The grave stone of Eshevis Tethimar is cracked in twain at his feet.

He backs away, limping towards the gate with the tatters of his cloak wrapped around his battered body.

He pauses to catch his breath just outside the gate, watching as the dawn comes up out of the mist to light the broken stones. And then he turns his back on Eshevis Tethimar for the last time, and lets Ulis take him.


End file.
